Let me tell you, when I turned 53, I thought I’d be the queen of my own castle. I’d imagined a quiet life: sipping tea in a pristine house where the cushions stayed exactly where I left them, and the fridge contained only what I wanted to eat. After raising three kids, alone, I thought I’d finally earned the right to live in a home that smelled of lavender and not last night’s Super Noodles.
Spoiler: That didn’t happen. My life now resembles a sitcom—mostly Peep Show. I’m Mark and they’re all a Jeremy/Super Hans hybrid.
All three of my adult children have moved back home. Not one, not two. Three.
My eldest, my golden boy, the one who escaped first. Oh, how proud I was when he left home to go to London for university. He became a musician and travelled the country. “He’s living his best life,” I told everyone. And he was! But all good things must come to an end, and now he’s back home, working on the next chapter.
The only problem is, the bedroom he grew up in? I turned it into an office. It became my space. A sanctuary where I could write, organise my life, and just, well, be. So, I removed the dining table from my dining room, and replaced it with a bed. Making it child number one’s now bedroom.
Next up, my middle one—my brilliant, hardworking, lawyer–in–training daughter. (She got a first–class law degree from the University of Liverpool. A first. I mean, “I’m proud,” doesn’t even begin to cover it.) Sadly, while she’s training, the pay is, let’s say, modest. So she’s back too.
Now, unlike her brother, she has her old bedroom. Which is great. Except for one tiny thing. She’s studying constantly. CONSTANTLY. There’s legal jargon flying around the house at all hours of the day, and she’s turning our home into a co–working space where I’m apparently the unpaid receptionist. “Can you keep it down, Mum? I’m revising.”
Oh, sorry. I’ll just ask the kettle not to boil so loudly.
And then there’s the baby. My youngest daughter. Because Wales Didn’t Work Out.
She moved to Wales to live in a pretty little Welsh cottage. She was living her best life… until she wasn’t. So she’s coming home in a couple of weeks, figuring out her next steps. She’s thinking about going to university now, which is amazing, but in the meantime… well… my office space/sanctuary is about to become the fourth bedroom.
You know what I’ve realised? I’ve never lived alone. Not once. Fifty–three years, and I’ve never had a house to myself. Some people fantasise about winning the lottery or moving to a tropical island. Me? I dream about coming home to a house where every mug is clean and the TV remote is exactly where I left it!
But it’s not just the lack of privacy. It’s the sheer logistics. Food disappears like magic. The bin is always full. Wi–Fi arguments are daily occurrences. And while I love my children to the moon and back, they have a habit of turning me into a one–woman concierge service: “Mum, have you seen my…?”, “Mum, can you pick up…?”, “Mum, what’s for dinner?”
“We’re all adults; make your own spaghetti hoops!”
Sometimes I wonder, is it just me? Or are other parents experiencing the same revolving door of grown–up children? I suspect it’s a trend—especially for single mums. We raised them on our own, gave them the best we could, and now that the world’s a bit of a mess, they’re back. I mean, who can afford to rent these days?
But here’s the thing: as much as I grumble, I wouldn’t change it. Sure, of course, I’d love a week of peace. But having them here means I get to see them every day, watch them grow in new ways, and frequently guilt them into making me cups of tea.
So, to all the single parents out there juggling adult kids in various states of independence, you’re not alone.
So, life at 53: never alone, always loved, slightly losing my mind.
Listen to my Avoid Excessive Cleavage podcasts.